‘Rebecca!’ he said, ‘Rebecca!’ She was as beautiful as love. And then, turning to his old companion, he started, ‘Bracken, Bracken…’ And it was a long, long time before they stopped talking and touching.
What a time then came to Duncton Wood! What excitement! For when the news was out that a scribemole had come, and none other than Boswell himself, how they all came flocking to the tunnels of Bracken and Rebecca to see and to touch him!
What excitement there was in the preparations before Longest Night that December! How especially thorough were so many of the moles in cleaning out and tidying their burrows! How full of hope that Boswell would go their way in the ancient tunnels and crouch near their burrows and talk softly to them as he answered their questions!
Never was there so much song and chatter, laughter and games, both on the surface and below it, as there was that Longest Night. Never did moles revel so much in the old tales, telling and retelling again the stories of Ballagan and Vervain, the first moles, and Linden, the first scribemole, and the stories of the Holy Books.
And, of course, it soon got out that there was a possibility, just a possibility, mind, that the seventh Book, the lost book, was, of all places, here, in Duncton!
‘No!’
‘Aye, that’s what they do say… you don’t think somemole as important as Boswell himself, who’s one of the most important moles in the land now, would come all this way just to say hello to his old friends and touch the Stone. No! If you ask me, what they say about this Book is right, and it is here.’
Once this was established, it was a short step for the Duncton moles to start debating where the Holy Book was—and that wasn’t hard to guess. ‘Under the Stone, that’s where. Beyond the Chamber of Dark Sound where nomole goes if he’s sensible, because there are charms and spells to protect it, and strange sounds that frighten the fur off a mole! Oh, yes! You’d be daft to try it!’
But being crazy never stops some moles from trying, and more than one sneaked his way past the Chamber of Dark Sound and into the Chamber of Echoes in search of the Book. Most got no further than a snout’s length before turning back from fear. But one did go further and got lost, and he was saved only because he had a friend with him who had the sense to summon Bracken for help—for everymole knew he knew the system like no other mole. He had to go in and rescue the explorer, who got a good many cuffs and curses on his way out—and a pat or two of encouragement as well, for Bracken knew better than most what courage he must have needed, even if he had got lost.
Tryfan himself did not meet Boswell until several moledays after Longest Night, when Bracken introduced them with joy—his most loved of friends and his son by Rebecca. What more could he have asked?
Boswell gazed gently at Tryfan, recognising him as the mole he had seen on the night of his arrival by the Stone, and knowing much about him—and guessing more—from what Rebecca had told him. He saw that Tryfan had about him qualities of both Rebecca and Bracken, and bore within himself a great deal of their love. And perhaps he knew that this was the mole he had come to find.
But if he did, he did not show it. Indeed, Bracken was rather surprised at Boswell’s apparent lack of interest and his unusually brief replies to the questions Tryfan asked him.
‘There’s not something wrong with the lad, is there, Boswell?’
‘No,’ said Boswell, shaking his head. ‘It’s just that I’m afraid for him. You said he wants to be a scribemole. Well, you, of all moles, ought to know how hard that can be. So leave me to find out if he has the character he’ll need.’
Again and again Boswell avoided, or put off, or refused to answer the questions Tryfan repeatedly asked. ‘How can I become a scribemole?’
‘Pray,’ was Boswell’s succinct answer.
Replies like this made Tryfan upset and uncharacteristically uncertain of himself and led him to go to the Stone even more, or talk for hours to Comfrey, as he wondered what he had done to offend Boswell, who was so pleasant to everymole else.
Yet, for all Boswell’s seeming refusal to talk, Tryfan began to see how much light there was in him and to follow him round at a distance, sometimes helping him with finding food if he needed it or showing him somewhere in the system that he wanted for some reason to see.
One day, and a very long day it was, Tryfan came to Boswell very nervously—his paws almost trembling with tension. Boswell pretended not to notice, but went about the tunnels as he often did, talking here, telling a tale there, saying blessings or sitting still.
‘Boswell—’ began Tryfan several times, but Boswell didn’t seem to encourage him, and Tryfan did not quite have the courage to finish his question. It was all so unlike him to be nervous, but there was something so simple about Boswell that he felt unworthy to ask him anything.
